


River King and The Safe Person, The

by westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist



Category: The West Wing
Genre: F/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-10-20
Updated: 2001-10-20
Packaged: 2019-05-15 23:06:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14799707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist/pseuds/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist
Summary: Josh's thoughts on life, love and agoraphobia.





	River King and The Safe Person, The

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

DISCLAIMER: I think we all know by now that they do  
not belong to me. All the wising in the world will  
never make it so. I am not Aaron Sorkin, nor am I NBC  
or Warner Bros. I'm just a bored college kid looking  
for an excuse not to study for Astronomy. I'm not  
receiving any money, food, or sex for this, although I  
could definitely use the food. 

SUMMARY: Josh's thoughts on life, love, and  
agoraphobia 

CATEGORY: Josh/Donna 

RATING: PG13 

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I don't really know what made me write  
this little vignette, but I did, so here it is. It's  
written as a journal entry from Josh's viewpoint after  
a resurgence of PTSD symptoms. Feedback welcome.  
I also  
have a website with some of my stuff on it, but it  
hasn't been updated in while since Geocities and I are  
having a bitch fight.  
Enjoy!

The River King and the Safe Person 

1, January, 2002 

So...here I am. I am here, writing in a diary. Of all  
the things I thought would never happen, this is most  
definitely one of them. And yet, here I am. And here  
is the diary. The diary that I'm writing in. 

Why am I, Joshua Lyman, Deputy White House Chief of  
Staff, writing in a diary? The answer is simple.  
I've been tag teamed by my assistant and my  
psychotherapist. 

Donna and Stanley make a formidable team. 

Stanley feels that I bottle my emotions up too often,  
and as a result I tend to...well...blow up now and then.  
So he says that if I can't talk to someone about what  
I feel, then I should at least write it down in a  
journal so I can get it out into the open and not let  
it fester. I complained about this to Donna, who then  
promptly went out and bought me this diary as a  
Christmas present. I have to admit, I rather like it.  
It's got a picture of Albert Einstein on the front  
with the quote "Imagination is more important than  
knowledge". 

Donna and I both share an immense appreciation for  
Albert Einstein. Something I didn't expect when I  
first knew her. I've always had a bit of an interest  
in physics, but it wasn't until I was recovering that  
I actually talked about it with Donna. She had seen  
me reading an article on Super string Theory (a.k.a.  
The Theory of Everything), so she went out and bought  
a copy of Dr. Brian Greene's "The Elegant Universe",  
which we share. It led us to a discussion of special  
and general relativity and I discovered that Ms. Moss  
\- like myself - sort of hero-worshipped Einstein. 

I learned a lot about Donna during those weeks when I  
was confined to the hospital and then my apartment. I  
learned that she also loves Nick at Nite, My Fair  
Lady, and Cary Grant. We watched endless episodes of  
"I Love Lucy" together, and I don't know how many old  
movies on AMC and TCM. I learned that she holds her  
breath until Audrey Hepburn appears in the doorway  
behind Rex Harrison, and that she always cries at the  
end of "Gone with the Wind". 

I learned that she hums to herself while she cooks,  
and that she always pushes a strand of hair behind her  
ear when she's upset and doesn't want to show it. I  
learned that she'll stare for hours at the rain, that  
she digs her nails into her palm when she's angry with  
me but doesn't want to yell, and that she looks the  
most beautiful in the morning before she puts on any  
makeup. Most importantly, I learned that no matter  
how hard I tried to push her away, I never could.  
Whatever I dished out she took in stride, and then  
told me to shove it. 

She sees through me like I'm made out of Saran wrap. 

Wow. That's the first time I've ever really thought  
about it. Well, I guess I've thought about it before,  
but not about what it means. Maybe Stanley is right;  
I do tuck things away. It must be some kind of  
defense mechanism. 

Which is what my mother thinks, at any rate. Let me  
tell you, I don't know why I shell out the money for  
Stanley when I have my mother. Mom thinks that going  
through the hell that I went through as a child when  
Joanie died made me wary of opening myself up to any  
emotion that could later hurt me. This, Mom says, is  
why I suck at relationships. No woman's prepared to  
give and not receive in return. 

That, in turn, led her to puzzling over why Donna's  
still around. I pointed out the fact that we're not  
romantically attached, and she just gave me one of her  
you-have-no-idea-what-you're-talking-about sighs. At  
any rate, Mother came to the conclusion that Donna  
just chooses to ignore how much she gives to me and  
pretends like it's what she's supposed to do, so that  
she doesn't have to expect anything in return. 

Which, of course, made me feel like an asshole.  
Which, of course, I am. 

For a week after that conversation I brought Donna  
coffee every morning from Starbucks. 

And then I promptly went back to ignoring the  
possibility of anything other than friendship between  
us. I told myself that I wasn't running away from any  
emotion because there wasn't any there to run away  
from. 

Yes, I know. Denial is a river in Egypt, and I am the  
River King. 

So, Donna, Stanley...you want me to write down what I  
feel? 

Fine. 

I love her. 

I am completely -head over freaking heels - in love  
with Donnatella Moss. 

I can't believe I never realized it. No, strike that.  
I can't believe I ever tried to trick myself into  
ignoring the realization. I can't believe that I ever  
thought (even on a subconscious level) that running  
away from an emotion like this was better than facing  
it. 

God, I'm an idiot. 

What led me to this conclusion? (That I love Donna,  
not that I'm an idiot. I've known I'm an idiot for  
years.) 

Well, it was a combination of feeling betrayed, the  
biggest emotional blow-out I've ever experienced,  
agoraphobia, and very nearly loosing the person who  
means the most to me. 

What is it with Christmas time and me having a nervous  
breakdown? Is this something that's going to be  
repeated every damn year? 

Okay, let me start from the beginning. 

With all the stress of trying to piece together a  
re-election strategy with the new bozos Leo hired,  
having to appear numerous times in front of a grand  
jury with a special prosecutor (who - if I believed in  
Satan- had been sent to destroy me), and Donna going  
out with that Republican slime ball, I had started to  
withdraw again. 

Yeah, I seem to do that a lot. And, no, it's not a  
good thing. 

So then began the worst hell I've ever gone through. 

It started...hell, I don't really know how it started.  
I remember being pissed as hell one night that Donna  
was out with Slime Ball. I thought maybe taking Joey  
out to dinner would make me feel better, and I was  
determined not to think about Donna. 

Joey, however, was not fooled. We spent the entire  
dinner talking about - you guessed it - Donna. With a  
little sprinkle of "Josh Lyman, you're the biggest  
idiot I know." It made me feel a little better since  
Joey was still convinced that Donna liked me. I left  
the restaurant feeling slightly lighter in spirit and  
decided I might as well go back to the office to wrap  
up some work. 

Bad idea. I made it back to the office to find a  
dozen red roses (What a lame-o. Come on, can't think  
of anything more original than red roses? Please.)  
sitting on Donna's desk. The vixen herself was  
dressed in the red dress (not any red dress, mind you,  
THE red dress) and was rehashing details with Cathy  
and Margaret. 

What bothered me most was the excited tone to Donna's  
voice, and that happy glow in her face. To know that  
it had been someone else that had made her feel like  
that was absolutely unbearable. 

I left the office feeling worse than ever. 

For three years, I've pretty much had a monopoly on  
Donna's attention without really realizing it. And  
now her attention was on someone else, and I couldn't  
stand it. 

All this was on top of the fact that I had had yet  
another agonizing grand jury appearance that morning.  
An appearance where the Special Dickhead had asked me  
in no uncertain terms if I was banging my assistant.  
No, he started off with trying to insinuate that I was  
sleeping with CJ, and then it progressed to Donna, and  
the colossal ass even managed to insinuate that there  
might have been improper relations between myself and  
ZOEY of all people. 

It's amazing I didn't wreck my car on the way home  
that night. I was so distracted by a black cloud of  
depression that was settling heavily on me. I admit  
freely that I'm a brooder, and I had plenty to brood  
about. 

There was just this intense feeling of disappointment.  
In myself for not having beaten Slime Ball to the  
chase and for not having faith that this  
Administration could see the current crisis through,  
in Donna for settling for less than she deserves, and  
although it's unfair of me...I was disappointed that she  
never managed to see through my jackass comments to  
the jealousy that lay beneath them, and that she  
couldn't understand what I felt without me having to  
take that horrendous risk I can never face to tell  
her. 

I was also disappointed in the President, an emotion  
that still hadn't gone away. 

It wasn't a disappointment because he lied, but rather  
that he didn't feel he could tell me. I mean, did he  
honestly think for one minute that I wouldn't give my  
right arm to be on his staff? To fight for what I  
believe in right along side him? Did he honestly  
think that I would EVER jump ship? 

Or did he just think that by ignoring it, it would go  
away? 

I guess a large part of me believed the latter, and  
that brought up my father. 

My father, the man who I'd worshipped every day of my  
life, who didn't tell me he was sick. Who felt it  
would be better if he suffered alone, so he wouldn't  
hurt me and Mom, not realizing that by pulling away he  
only hurt us more. Who felt that maybe if he didn't  
have to say it out loud to us, maybe...just maybe it  
wouldn't be true. 

I was uncharacteristically home one weekend, and I was  
by myself in the kitchen making coffee. I distinctly  
remember that Mom and Dad were having one of their  
regular arguments in the garden, always a source of  
amusement to the neighbors. See, Dad loved garden  
gnomes. He thought they were hilarious. Mom thought  
they were hideous, and as they both worked equally on  
the garden both felt they had the right of it. So Dad  
would on occasion sneak a garden gnome into a secluded  
spot where Mom would eventually discover it and  
threaten to glue it to the hood of Dad's BMW. 

Dad retaliated by threatening to buy various garish  
garden decorations and attach them permanently to the  
house. The ensuing arguments were local legends in the  
Hartford suburb where I grew up. 

After Dad died, Mom moved back to her mother's house  
in the Connecticut countryside. She told me that it  
was just what you do when you lose something  
irreplaceable; you pack up and you move on. 

There's a large vegetable garden at the country house  
now that's filled to brimming with garden gnomes. 

At any rate, the point is that I was alone in the  
kitchen when the phone rang. It was Dad's oncologist,  
calling to remind him that he'd missed a treatment. I  
don't remember much after that, but I remember hearing  
the crash of my coffee cup as it hit the floor. The  
crash must've brought Dad in from the garden, because  
the next thing I remember is that I was yelling at  
him, demanding to know why he hadn't told me he was  
sick. 

He just stood there silently, and then I realized that  
I was yelling at man who was living on borrowed time,  
that I was yelling at him when I could be hugging him,  
and then I wasn't yelling anymore; I was crying. I  
was sobbing uncontrollably at the inconceivable  
thought that I might lose the man on whom the  
foundation of my world rested. 

It was the first time I could remember really and  
truly crying since Joanie died. 

While I've always held Leo McGarry in the highest  
respect, I guess on some level I had started to  
substitute the President for my father. Both were men  
whom I could strive to be like, men who were the real  
thing. 

And then I found out that he, as well, was sick. I  
channeled my anger into the more manageable political  
ramifications, choosing to ignore the personal effect  
the news had on me. 

That didn't mean it went away. 

So that night as I drove home, I was crushed beneath  
the weight of depression based on an irrational  
feeling of betrayal. I felt (yes, I know,  
unjustifiably) that Donna had betrayed me for the  
"other man", and that the President had betrayed me by  
not trusting me. Memories of my father led to  
memories of Joanie, and the sharp edge of painful loss  
also worked its way into my thoughts. 

I walked through my apartment door and felt then such  
an overwhelming feeling of loneliness I can't even  
describe it. 

I guess that was what led to a resurgence of the panic  
attacks. 

This time there was nothing gradual about it. There  
was no slow withdrawal from the people and world  
around me. This time it wasn't hidden in the confines  
of my bedroom or curled up on the couch. 

All this emotion swelled within me, and I began  
wondering again if perhaps I should have died that  
night in Rosslyn. I began wondering if it perhaps  
would've been better if that bullet had moved four  
inches to the left. And so I remembered the shooting,  
and yes, I relived it. I thought I'd forever moved  
past it, but I hadn't. Not at all. 

This time it wasn't music that brought it on. It was  
just my own thoughts, which was something I wasn't  
prepared for in the least. 

Last time the attacks happened, they happened when I  
got home; when everything I'd felt during the day had  
kicked in. 

This time they happened when I tried to leave. 

I decided I needed a drink, but as I set foot outside  
my building, I was suddenly overcome by sweaty palms,  
a pounding in my head, and the feeling that I was  
being crushed by some force from above. I couldn't  
breathe. I immediately darted back inside, and once I  
was safely in the hall, I felt my body shake with  
relief. My knees must've given way, because I  
remember sitting on the floor and looking up at the  
security guard as he asked me if I were alright. I  
think I must've nodded weakly, because I pulled myself  
to my feet and managed to get back into elevator and  
into my apartment, where I collapsed on the couch. I  
was still in a cold sweat, but my breath was slowly  
becoming deeper and my heart was calming down. 

I went to sleep, trying to convince myself that it was  
all I needed, but when I tried again in the morning to  
leave, the same thing happened again. 

I was shaking, semi-curled up on the couch in my  
living room (still wearing my coat) when Donna called  
me to ask why the hell I was late for work. The sound  
of her voice for some reason made me feel a little  
better and I lied to her, telling her I'd just slept  
in. I tried again, failed miserably, and retreated  
back to my apartment. 

It was several minutes before I could catch my breath  
enough to call Donna back, and then I could only  
muster a few words, which was enough to send her  
straight to her car and over to my apartment. If I'd  
been thinking straight at that point, I would've  
realized that it was a sign that perhaps I hadn't lost  
her to the Slime Ball after all. 

While Donna was in transit, I had called Stanley (I  
had his number on speed dial). He informed me that I  
wasn't crazy (I still disagree with him there), but  
that my PTSD had caused an agoraphobic reaction in me.  
It was understandable, he said, because I'd always  
preferred cramped, intimate spaces and I now somewhat  
associated more open spaces with the shooting. Stress  
and all this bottled up emotion had brought on my PTSD  
with a vengeance, and there was precious little I  
could do to immediately solve It. 

By that point I was getting a little hysterical.  
Stanley told me that what I had to do was calm down  
(yeah, I'd like to see him try in my situation) and  
find my safe person. 

Whatever the hell that was. 

He then explained to me that a safe person was exactly  
what it sounded like: someone who made me feel safe.  
Someone who I could be with and feel protected. I  
thought it would be my mother, but then I recognized  
that to be untrue. 

My safe person was Donna. 

I said this to Stanley, who then said it was logical,  
as seeing how I probably associated Donna the most  
with my recovery. She was the one on who's shoulders  
I leaned when I was regaining strength in my legs,  
who's shoulder I feel asleep on at night when we  
stayed up late to watch "I Love Lucy", and who guided  
me through every single day of my life for the past  
three years. Of all the people in my life, she was  
the one I was in the most day-to-day contact with. 

I hung up with Stanley as Donna let herself in (yes,  
she still had a key to my apartment - I hadn't had the  
heart to ask for it back). I'll never forget the look  
on her face, a look that showed every ounce of feeling  
she had for me. Every scrap of concern, caring,  
compassion, and even love was evident in the way her  
eyes immediately found mine, the way she rapidly  
blinked to avoid tears, and the way she smiled with  
relief when she found I wasn't curled up in some  
unspeakable kind of agony on the floor. 

I told her what Stanley had said, and what I felt  
every time I stepped outside, how I couldn't make it  
past the door of the building, and even how the  
thought of going outside raised my heart rate. I told  
her that I needed her to be my safe person, that I  
knew I had no right to ask it of her, but that I  
needed her to be my strength for me. 

She threw her arms around me and told me I was an  
idiot for even considering the possibility that she'd  
say no. I remember how good it felt to hold on to  
her, and how I didn't want to let go. 

I realized in that moment that I would never be able  
to live without Donnatella Moss. I realized that I  
needed her like I needed air, and that I could no  
longer stand by and pretend nothing was wrong as she  
tried to find love somewhere other than in me. 

So I told her. I told her everything. 

I hadn't intended to, it just came out. I remember it  
started with telling her that I was sorry. She pulled  
back, looked at me oddly and said "Sorry for what?" 

I told her I was sorry for needing her so much, and  
after that it was like a dam had broken and I couldn't  
stop the words from flowing forward. I told her that  
I was sorry for every time I snapped at her, for every  
time I took her for granted, and for every hurtful  
thing I'd ever said. I told her I was sorry that I  
could never tell her how much she meant to me, sorry  
that I never had the guts to tell her that every time  
she went out with someone else it drove me crazy with  
jealousy. And I told her that I was sorry I hated her  
red dress because she didn't wear it for me. 

I told her I was sorry that I didn't deserve someone  
like her, but that it didn't stop me from loving her  
anyway. 

I've never been kissed so passionately in my entire  
life. 

Come to think of it, I don't think I've ever kissed  
anyone back so passionately, either. 

It was the one bright spot in an otherwise pretty  
shitty day. See, on the upside, Donna and I finally  
declared our love for each other, and on the downside,  
I still couldn't leave the apartment. 

"This is isn't like the movies," I remember muttering  
at one point (after the fifth or so failure to get  
outside). 

"What happens in the movies?" Donna asked. 

"I don't know...quick resolution? See, once the  
problem's solved, shouldn't the symptoms go away? I  
got down on my knees and groveled to you, so you'd  
think at least I could get to my damn car!" 

"You weren't on your knees." 

I distinctly remember glaring at her. Which is  
nothing she isn't used to by now. So I stood by, ever  
so patiently (translation: biting my fingernails)  
while Donna called Leo and explained the situation  
(pausing only to swat my arm and mouth "Don't chew  
your fingernails" at me.) 

Unfortunately for my state of mind, I couldn't escape  
talking to Leo. I was convinced at this point that  
yet another incident of psychological malfunction  
would spell certain unemployment (yes, I know...I  
brood), and yet again I was wrong. 

My political career in the White House seems to be far  
too comprised of my narrowly avoiding being fired for  
my comfort. 

But Leo knew me. He knew what I'd been through, and  
he told me that I was needed now more than ever, and  
that a little thing like the outdoors wasn't going to  
stop me from doing my job. Which, true to Leo's  
uncanny senses, was exactly what I needed to hear. I  
can't sit around and mope; I need to move. 

So I squeezed my eyes shut and held on to Donna as she  
led me to the car (mine, as she'd have to escort me  
back again and then drive home). I let her drive so I  
wouldn't freak out behind the wheel and kill us both,  
keeping my eyes closed nearly the entire way to the  
White House. Every time I opened them, I felt  
nauseous. 

Once I was inside the building, however, I felt fine.  
Better, actually, than I had at home. 

Go figure. 

So having established two locales where I felt fine,  
and my safe person, I should've been able to start the  
process by which to rid myself of this, right? 

Sort of. 

Well, let me state, just for the record, that Donna  
agreed to postpone anything even remotely related to  
any feelings past friendship. Not that I'm running  
again, mind you. It was Donna's idea. She doesn't  
want to add any additional pressure to the situation.  
Business as usual, she says, excepting the fact that  
she's ditched Slime Ball. (YES!!! SWEET VICTORY! I  
DRINK FROM THE KEG OF GLORY, BABY!) 

After around two weeks - that were excruciatingly long  
and frustrating - I was able to step outside with  
Donna, and not have to close my eyes. Aside from a  
slightly rising heartbeat that I learned to control  
through some Yoga-type breathing (At least this damn  
thing's confidential...I don't want to think of the  
field day CJ would have if I admitted to any practice  
related to Yoga) I felt almost normal again. Provided  
that Donna was right there, of course. 

Our goal was to get me to a point where I could get  
outside without Donna there, but still in contact with  
her over our cell phones, ending up with her able to  
talk me to the car and then to the White House. From  
there, I could try to transfer to a different safe  
person (CJ being Stanley's suggestion, as he seems to  
think I compare her subconsciously with Joanie) whom I  
could walk to the OEOB or the Hill with (I'd been  
forced to take meetings in my office and fabricate  
excuses for those I couldn't transfer to the West  
Wing). 

Sounded like a great plan, no? 

Only one hitch: Leo made an offer to Donna for her to  
take the job of Mrs. Landingham. 

His reasoning: A) Donna's put up with my crap; she  
can certainly cope with the president. B) Donna uses  
the nonsensical filing system pioneered by Dolores  
Landingham, and thus would have little trouble  
adjusting. C) She's the most ruthlessly efficient  
secretary in the West Wing, and the most discreet. D)  
What she lacks in credentials she makes up for in the  
fact that she knows as much (if not more) arcane  
trivia than the President, and the fact that, well,  
the President likes her. Plus, he knows her, and he  
hates getting new people. 

And, though not officially a factor in his decision,  
Leo thinks it would help break my little dependency on  
Donna if I wasn't in constant contact with her indoors  
as well as out of. 

My reasoning against it: A) Donna doesn't like to  
admit it, but she's intimidated by the President. B)  
The Landingham/Moss filing system has spread like a  
damn disease throughout the West Wing and OEOB. Just  
about anyone but me and the temp knows it. C) Of  
course she's the best; that's why I need her in my  
office. D) As much as I complain, I really don't know  
what I'd do in the morning if I wasn't confronted with  
"The 10 things you never wanted to know about  
Alexander Hamilton" or "The best fruits to eat if you  
want healthy, glowing skin". Let us not forget the  
classic "Best way to put your opponent in check mate"  
chess conversation. That was a classic. And, damn  
it, the President knows most of the assistants.  
Couldn't he pick someone else? 

I don't want to loose constant contact with Donna. I  
like it. 

Which, I guess, is part of the problem, as Leo and  
Stanley pointed out (respectively). I need to  
relinquish some of my dependency on/control over  
Donna. 

What she'll say, I have no idea. At Leo's urging, I'm  
not supposed to talk to her about it. It has to be  
entirely her decision. 

Which, as much as I want her to stay with me, I can  
accept. (Grudgingly) 

I remember asking my grandfather if he missed my  
grandmother (who'd been killed when it was discovered  
she was helping to smuggle Jews out of Poland -  
including my infant father - but that's another  
story). He'd told me that every time he breathed he  
felt her loss. 

This was shortly after Joanie died, and I was  
wondering if the pain and guilt I felt would ever go  
away. Privately, I felt that I didn't deserve it to  
go away; it was my punishment for having fled the  
house and not trying to reach her (irrational, but  
then have I ever needed a reason to beat myself up?). 

And then Grandpa looked up at the sky, back down at  
me, and said "Joshua, part of loving someone is  
learning to give them space to fly when they have to,  
and learning to let go of them when you can no longer  
hold on." 

I didn't want to let go of Joanie, but I understood  
what he meant in later years. It was not honoring her  
memory to brood over her death. I should celebrate  
her life. I eventually came around to the knowledge  
that pain and sorrow was not what she'd want from me.  
What'd she'd want is for me to get out there and do  
the job that I was born to do: to uphold the ideals I  
was raised to believe in so strongly. 

As the President would say, she'd want me to show her  
numbers, and then do something about it. 

I still didn't want to let go of Donna so soon after  
I'd realized just what she meant to me. So naturally  
I called my mother, who then (after an hour or so of  
fretting over me) told me that true love is like a  
boomerang. Even if you let go, it'll still come back  
to you. 

I don't know why this woman doesn't write self-help  
books. She'd make a fortune. 

And I know she's right. 

I'd planned to call Donna and tell her that whatever  
decision she made, I would respect it and support her.  
Leo was probably right; it might help me adjust to a  
new safe person, and the sooner I could do that, the  
sooner I could break this damn mental cycle that kept  
me indoors. 

There was no answer at her apartment, and I figured I  
should giver her the chance to call me back instead of  
tracking her down on her cell phone and pager. Who  
says I can't make progress? CJ was supposed to come  
over in an hour or so to work on the Everglades  
Reclamation Bill spin (but most importantly, bearing  
Chinese food), so I settled in to try and work on my  
ridiculous relaxation techniques. 

Stanley had suggested that I try to learn more yoga  
than just the breathing exercises and standing against  
a wall, as it is his firm belief it will help me  
relax. 

Personally, I think it's more liable to kill me from  
embarrassment. 

The coffee table in my living room had been pushed  
aside, and I was stretching my body in ways it was  
never meant to be stretched to the backdrop of some  
New Age crap CD I'd borrowed from Donna's roommate,  
thanking whatever God above that no one was around to  
see me in sweat pants and a t-shirt making an absolute  
fool out of myself. 

That's about when CJ walked in. 

I mean, yes, it was great to hear her laugh like that  
again, but did it have to be at my expense? And I  
don't think collapsing and holding her stomach with  
both hands was called for, either. She most certainly  
did not have to shout at the top of her lungs "Joshua  
Lyman, what on earth are you doing?!" 

So, yes, Claudia Jean Cregg now has some damn good  
blackmail material should she ever need it. 

At least I hadn't lit those ridiculous feng shui  
candles Donna had bought. 

If only I'd remembered that Donna had told me she was  
giving her key to CJ for the evening. That'll teach  
me to zone out when she's talking. At any rate, CJ  
and I had plowed through a number of points on the  
Everglades bill, worked out a partial spin strategy  
that still needed a little ironing out by Sam and  
Toby, and had an all-around pleasant dinner. 

It was around the time that CJ had thrown her briefing  
booklet on the floor and was pelting me with a pillow  
and demanding that I hand over the remote control when  
the phone rang. I stood up, clutching the remote in a  
death grip in one hand, picked up the phone, and  
ducked another blow from CJ's Pillow-Of-Death. She  
yelped as she lost her balance and fell to the floor  
in a great heap of dress suit and legs. 

Whatever humor I may have found in the situation was  
quickly forgotten when I heard Donna's voice on the  
other end of the phone. I've spent three years of my  
life listening to that woman day in and day out, and I  
know the tones of her voice pretty damn well by now.  
And the tone that I heard was the tone she uses when  
she's scared or hurt and is trying to cover it up so I  
won't notice. 

Like that ever worked. 

She must've been calling me on her cell, because it  
kept breaking up, and I only heard pieces of what she  
must've been saying. I heard the words "hospital" and  
"accident" in the same sentence and I felt my stomach  
drop about fifty feet. I asked if she was okay, but  
whatever she said was drowned out by static, there was  
a sharp gasp as if she were stung by something  
painful, and then the line went dead. 

See, if I'd been thinking clearly, I would've realized  
that if she wasn't okay, she wouldn't have been  
calling me. I would also have realized that the  
battery in her cell phone had probably gone dead, and  
that she'd call me back once she found a pay phone. 

But then, of course, I'm not exactly famous for  
thinking clearly in personal crises. 

Definitely not when Donna Moss is involved. 

All I could think of was that Donna might be hurt  
somewhere, and that I needed to get to her. I threw  
on a coat, grabbed my car keys off the table, and  
tossed them to CJ, who I'd been blabbering to while I  
tried to find my shoes. CJ tried to talk me into  
staying at the apartment while she tried to find out  
which hospital Donna was at, but I told her in no  
uncertain terms that I had an extra set of keys and  
that if she didn't drive me to GW, I'd drive myself. 

Yeah, I'm not really sure how I knew that it was the  
hospital Donna was at. I just knew, for some reason.  
I guess that ought to tell me something. 

CJ, fortunately, knows a lot of back roads (she hates  
traffic with a passion, and has developed a whole new  
system of curse words specifically for traffic jams)  
and got us there in record time. Which is good,  
because the entire car ride I had my eyes squeezed  
shut, and was forcing breath in and out of my  
protesting lungs. 

I could feel the barrier pressing down on me just as  
it had every time I stepped out the door of my  
apartment building. The pressure pushed in on me, but  
I pushed right back, thinking only that I had to get  
to Donna. I rubbed my palms furiously on my  
sweatpants, trying to get rid of the clamminess, and  
my stomach felt as though it was strapped to a roller  
coaster. My head pounded against my skull as I  
laboriously inhaled and exhaled. 

CJ must've asked me five hundred times if I was  
alright, but I just grunted and told her to keep  
driving. We pulled up in the parking lot of GW, a  
good distance away from the actual building, as it was  
the only available parking spot. I cast CJ what  
must've been an extremely panicked look, because she  
grabbed on to my hand and told me that I didn't have  
to get out of the car. 

I took a deep breath, threw the door open, and stepped  
out, immediately grabbing on to the frame of the car  
for support. I closed my eyes, trying to fight my  
rising heartbeat and forcing my breathing back into a  
deeper, more regular pattern. CJ latched on to my  
arm, and I found that her presence made me feel a  
little bit better. I could open my eyes again, though  
my palms were still clammy and my stomach was  
practicing acrobatics. She ushered me inside, where  
we barraged the harassed-looking nurse at the  
information desk with questions about Donna. 

We were getting absolutely nowhere, and I was trying  
to ignore scenes that flashed before my eyes of  
masked-faces and ceiling lights flashing past me, and  
then I heard her voice behind me. I whipped around  
and saw her standing behind me in the lobby. She was  
carrying her coat over one arm and there was a  
bandaged cut on her forehead. She was looking at me  
with a somewhat mystified expression. I swear my  
knees almost gave way with relief. 

CJ was yelling at the nurse and pointing in Donna's  
direction, but I didn't really hear what she was  
saying. I was too busy staring at Donna. At Donna,  
who was whole, unhurt, and standing right in front of  
me. I raised a hand to her forehead, and brushed a  
piece of hair away from her cut. I asked her if she  
was okay, and she told me that she'd been hit by a  
driver who ran a red light. Her car was totaled, but  
she was okay; it had hit the passenger side, not the  
driver's. 

She kept spouting information at me, but to be  
perfectly honest, I think I stopped listening at "I'm  
okay, but -" Nothing else mattered but the fact that  
she wasn't hurt. 

I wrapped my arms around her right there in the public  
lobby of a public hospital, not caring what reporter  
or politician happened to see us. I kissed her for  
all I was worth, and it wouldn't have mattered one bit  
if Anne Stark, Mary Marsh and the National Enquirer  
were standing right beside us. 

It wasn't until later that I fully realized that I'd  
managed to get all the way to the hospital without  
Donna as my safe person. Somehow my needing Donna had  
freed me from needing her...sounds odd, I know, but I  
can't really explain it another way. 

Despite everything that had happened, I think I was  
still holding something back from Donna, still trying  
to protect myself from something uncertain. Only I  
realized, standing there in that hospital lobby, that  
nothing was more certain in the universe than...well...us.  
I had been secretly terrified that I would lose Donna  
like I'd lost nearly everyone I loved, and I think  
that's part of what made me try to keep hold of her  
any way I could. 

But when I realized that Donna was the biggest  
certainty in my life, I also realized that it didn't  
matter if you pulled us apart and set us down on  
opposite sides of the globe without maps. We'd still  
find each other. 

What Mom had been trying to tell me finally sunk in.  
The truest love is definitely like a boomerang. You  
can't get rid of it; it just keeps coming back. But  
sometimes to get it back, you first have to let go. 

So I wasn't upset when Donna told me yesterday that  
she'd decided to take the job. I know it doesn't  
matter that she doesn't work for me anymore. I don't  
have to have her right outside my office to know that  
she'll be there. I don't need her to be my crutch any  
longer. I can stand on my own, and I think she needs  
to stand on her own as well. 

Besides, she still has a key to my apartment. And a  
toothbrush in my bathroom. And a coffee mug on my  
kitchen counter. We're not even going to discuss the  
articles of clothing I've found on my bedroom floor.  
(Come on - it couldn't remain an innocent relationship  
forever) 

Over the past few weeks, I've been able to get to my  
car and drive to work okay, only occasionally having  
CJ or Sam talk me through it. Toby's been  
accompanying me to the Hill lately, which doesn't look  
conspicuous seeing as how the President asked both of  
us to handle the new Appropriations bill meetings.  
Sam and I take lunch hour together and CJ walks me to  
my car at night. Bit by bit, I'm reclaiming my life. 

And I'm doing it on my own terms. 

  


End file.
